


what runs deep

by witticaster



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, also there's some mentions of vomiting in here in case that's not great for you, featuring Dorian's cool and totally canon granny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 03:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13226955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witticaster/pseuds/witticaster
Summary: The first clear memory Dorian has of his grandmother, Oma Pythonissa Venenifer Opulentia Pavus, is when he was seven years old and she found him throwing up into a vase during one of his father’s parties.





	what runs deep

**Author's Note:**

> so first and foremost, this wonderful woman is a creation of teryster and dreadhalla over on tumblr; they were kind enough to let me try my hand at writing her as a present for teryster! there's a stunning image of Granny Oma [here ](http://teryster.tumblr.com/post/169004863156/meet-dorians-beloved-grandmother-oma) if you want a visual aid

The first clear memory Dorian has of his grandmother, Oma Pythonissa Venenifer Opulentia Pavus, is when he was seven years old and she found him throwing up into a vase during one of his father’s parties.

He can still see her framed in the doorway of his father’s study, holding a crystal brandy decanter and staring at him, the noise of the nearby dinner party threading its way through the halls. The latest fashion trend in Tevinter is to corset and contort yourself into a straight-edged pillar wrapped in fabric, but Grandmother Oma hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care. She’s dressed in heavy, obtrusive shapes, her collar magnificent, her jewelry boastful. The rubies on the frames of her spectacles match the ones stitched into her gloves. His father doesn’t really look like her at all; if anything, Dorian can see his own face echoed in hers. He wonders if he can make his eyebrows do what hers are doing. 

She is completely still as she watches him wipe vomit away from his mouth. A lone nostril flinches.

“I’m confused,” she says, in that voice which shakes gods. “Why not simply do that in front of the guests, and give everyone a memorable first impression of the scion of House Pavus?” 

“I-” His throat still feels acid-coated. “I’m sorry.”

“Well that’s no good to me; I didn’t ask for an apology, did I?” She swirls the decanter. The brandy creeps up the bottle neck, but never overflows. “I asked for an explanation.”

Dorian doesn’t know whether to smile or run; his mother would be sneering and making him watch while a slave came to clean up after him, and his father would be shouting something about the void that is his future. He doesn’t think she’s angry, exactly. At least, not angry in any way he can recognize.

“Speak up, boy,” Grandmother Oma snaps. “Is it only now that you can keep your mouth from spewing?”

“I didn’t throw up in front of everyone,” he says, “because I didn’t want to make a domino chain happen.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“People always puke in the gardens after parties when they’re drunk,” Dorian elaborates. “And they all seem pretty drunk already. I thought they might forget themselves and make a mess inside.”

Grandmother Oma makes a dry noise in her throat. “I see my son certainly hasn’t raised you to respect your elders.”

“There aren’t a lot of people to respect,” he replies. It surprises him, how easily it rolls off of his tongue. He’s used to speaking feeling like a maze filled with traps; he can get caught staring at three different paths, scared of what they all might bring. His mother and father usually don’t mind his silence, and drag him whichever way they like, talking themselves out without asking for his opinion.

He’s never had someone stand over his shoulder and tell him to pick a path, already. It makes him anxious, and he wants her to tell him if he’s picked right. “I mean- I just meant that sometimes, some of them are-”

Grandmother Oma rolls her eyes, striding into the room, the long indigo train of her dress following after her. It slithers over the tiles and onto the ancient rug he’d managed not to get any sick on. Running her fingers disinterestedly over his father’s books, she says, “By all means, if you’re going to be an impetuous little mite, do so without vacillation. A determined and foolish action is better than a half-assed one.” He thinks that might be funny, and maybe even true. “What exactly is your excuse for early evening retching? I do hope you’re not drunk. You’re barely old enough to walk.”

“No. I was nervous,” he says. She frowns at him, perplexity digging into her face. It must be where all of her wrinkles come from, and there are plenty of them. She keeps looking at him like that, so he adds, “And also I think I ate too much cheese.”

She makes that dry noise again, and chases it down with a swig of brandy straight from the decanter. “Don’t tell me you were fool enough to try from the cheese plate, they’re always rich enough to poison a Fereldan.”

Shame lingers around the muscles of his jaw, but he replies, “But I didn’t half-ass it.”

Grandmother Oma shoves the decanter into his hands with firm instructions that it is hers, and that she is not inviting him to taste it, before she shakes her sleeves back. “Watch a master,” she says, and makes the vomit-filled vase levitate. Dorian faintly realizes that it’s a prized antique as she sends it flying out an open window.

It hangs there in the moonlight for a moment before dropping out of sight. Dorian’s ears hear a deafening crash, but the music and drawling voices coming from down the hall don’t stop. He regards Grandmother Oma as she shakes her sleeves forward over her ancient hands again.

“Now I will go back and find a suitable culprit,” she says. “Good thing, too. The evening was getting awfully dull.” She catches him staring and snatches the decanter out of his hands. “Shouldn’t you be tucked into bed, dreaming of new ways to get yourself into trouble?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t have a bedtime.”

“Then give yourself one,” Grandmother Oma replies. “If your father hasn’t the brains to attend to you properly, you must attend to yourself.” She takes another long drink. “Or, remain an unruly little baggage. Makes no difference to me. I take my leave of you.”

With a wave of her hand, the window panes swing shut again. Dorian wants to say thank you, but feels that voicing it would ruin it. He watches her stride away from him and towards the teeming parlor, the decanter held aloft, and her chin held higher. 

“Oh, and Dorian?” she calls back. “If these simpering dolts are enough to make you nervous, I advise you to consider why they are not worthy of your respect, but are worthy of your fear.” She glances over her shoulder at him. “Did you understand all of those words?” 

He feels himself smile a little even as he bristles. “Just the long ones.”


End file.
